


Take Shelter

by insideimfeelindirty



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Bellamy Blake is a filthy fucking bastard, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Masturbation, Oral Sex, Romance, a lot of swearing, i didn't mean to write smut but here we are, they do it everywhere and octavia is appalled, this is the first time i write for bellarke so please be gentle with me, this may ruin pancakes for you
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-24
Updated: 2016-03-24
Packaged: 2018-05-28 20:19:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,890
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6343756
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/insideimfeelindirty/pseuds/insideimfeelindirty
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>Bunker down, the news reports say, this is only going to get worse. It has never been worse than it is about to get, in the history of this city, it has never been like this.</em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>  <em>Clarke ends up babysitting her roommate's brother during the worst storm in the history of the city.</em></p>
<p> </p>
<p>--------------------------------</p>
<p>So here they are, the boy who destroys everything he touches and the girl who is never enough. A monster and a martyr, breaking and broken, crashing up against each other like driftwood in a storm surge.</p>
<p>“How do we always end up here?"</p>
<p>Exposing themselves to each other. Cutting themselves raw on the past. Letting the other in, giving away parts that are not given away easily. Handing each other the ammunition and a map of where to inflict the deepest wounds.</p>
<p>She doesn’t say it because he already knows.</p>
<p> </p>
<p> <em>Maybe you’re exactly what I needed.</em></p>
            </blockquote>





	Take Shelter

**Author's Note:**

> This is my very first attempt at writing for Bellarke so please take it easy on me and also let me know what you think!
> 
> The title for this fic and the lyrics are from "Take Shelter" by Years & Years.
> 
> You can always come find me on [tumblr](http://insideimfeelinpurrdy.tumblr.com/) and shout at me.

 

_I don’t really wanna stop myself_

_Nobody’s gonna tell me I need help_

 

Friday, October.

 

The air is heavy and buzzing, poised to erupt and destroy. The storm is days away but the wind howls around street corners already, menacing and low, setting the entire city on edge.

 

Inside, Raven is raging on her own, swallowing back her rum and coke and equal parts terrifying and captivating the bartender with her animated order for more. They’ve been discussing Clarke’s sex life, or lack of thereof, for the past ten minutes, and she feels herself getting more loose lipped with each sip of her drink.

 

“You’re love sick, that’s all,” Raven concludes, and she makes it sound like a minor scrape. “How long has it been?"

 

“Since Lexa."

 

Raven’s smirk falters at the name, her hand reaching across the bar for hers, her eyebrows knotted in worry.

 

“Sorry."

 

“It’s ok. I’m over it."

 

She’s not, but she needs to be, for her own sanity. 

 

“Lexa ended in April. That’s practically criminal, Clarke,” she says lightly, patting her arm. 

 

“It’s basically obscene,” she smiles, her frustration gnawing at her core, the alcohol doing little to dull the itch thrumming beneath the surface of her skin. 

 

They stay until her knees are a little weak and Raven’s eyes are sleepy and happy, slinging heavy, sloppy arms around each other on their way out. Outside the wind messes up her hair, leaving a golden halo around her head.

 

“The next time I meet someone, it’s going to be forever,” she whispers into Raven’s ear as she hugs her tightly.

 

 

* * *

 

There is a man on her couch when she lets herself into her apartment. Octavia’s brother, she remembers, darker, taller, harder somehow. He looks up as she enters, book resting in his lap, dark curls messed up around his head.

 

“Hi."

 

He looks at her like he’s already heard everything about her and he can’t wait to find out if it’s all true.

 

“Bellamy, right?"

 

She in return has heard very little about him, she knows the metrics, the where, the what, the how much, but not the why. She’s not sure if it’s sheer curiosity or the warm buzz lingering in her stomach that propels her forward and slumps her down on the couch next to him, knees knocking softly against each other. 

 

“O staying at Lincoln’s?” she breathes, deep musk and wood mixing with the usual lightness of jasmine and fabric softener that seems to always hang over the apartment she shares with Octavia.

 

He nods a pained, resigned confirmation followed by a heavy sigh and hands running through curls. 

 

“Don’t worry,” she chuckles lightly, “Lincoln is the kind of guy you’d want for your sister, I promise."

 

Before she can stop her hand she is patting him comfortingly on the thigh, his hard muscles foreign under her hand. 

 

“Thanks,” he smiles now, dimples lining either side of his mouth. “For mollifying the overprotective big brother." 

 

“Is that why you’re still up? Waiting for Octavia to turn into a pumpkin? Or is your book really that riveting?"

 

She motions to the ancient leather covered book resting on his lap, the title, _Theogony_ , barely legible in faded gold letters. 

 

He smirks and suddenly she thinks she’d like nothing more than to keep making him smile.

 

It’s easy from there on, learning him. He shows her the books he’s reading, the worn spines and the battered covers, the thumbed pages that have been read over and over. She shows him some of her sketches, and he doesn’t say they’re good, he just studies them closely, like they will help him unlock some deep secret about her.

 

She tells him about her studies, what she wishes she had the guts to do versus what she is actually doing. He tells her about his job, leaves out the details and leaves her thinking he hates it. 

 

They end up watching 90s music videos and he knows every single word to Steal My Sunshine, shouting _“Jared, I love you”_ at such a high pitch that she laughs until her face hurts and her stomach aches. At some point he starts calling her Princess, but he says it with a softness in his voice, so she doesn’t mind. 

 

“Must be nice, Princess, getting an apartment like this?"

 

He gestures to the high ceilings, the tall windows and the generous proportions of her brownstone apartment, noticing the privilege but missing the pain. 

 

“I inherited it from my dad when he died,” she shrugs, avoiding his gaze, that hollow, hard feeling inside cooling down the warm buzz she’s had in her stomach all night. 

 

“I’m sorry,” he says, simply, his hand now on her thigh running in comforting circles. 

 

That cold, hard thing inside she can never get rid of floats up and threatens to close her throat, the warmth of his hand radiating through her jeans and slowly melting some of it away so she can breathe.

 

“I was 17 when he killed himself.”

 

Her voice is small and her fingers unsteady as they roam lightly over the old watch on her left wrist.

 

“He was so sure he had the right information, he was convinced, but he didn’t want to go on record because there were too many lives at risk.” She huffs forcibly, gritting her teeth. "They made him anyway, and turns out he was wrong after all. It broke him."

 

He doesn’t try to comfort or reason away anything, he simply sits next to her as she lets her words sink, tapping his fingers against her leg once or twice. 

 

“Our mother died when I was 22,” he says, which isn’t news to her, but it’s comforting nonetheless to hear him say it, a shared pain resonating between them. “She… had a hard life."

 

Octavia has given her the details, but she never had the weariness on her face that Bellamy does, the weight of responsibility written in the hard clench of his jaw, the flicker of betrayal dancing in his dark eyes. 

 

“The things we do to survive after,” he says, looking up at her, voice insistent. “It’s not who we are, it’s just who we need to be."

 

He is older than he looks, she realises, a twisted, gnarled tree bending as storms keep battering him, refusing to crack under the pressure. She wonders what she looks like to him, but resilient is likely not it. She is too consumed with abandonment, her veins thrumming with rage and her jaw set in constant defiance.

 

“Does it ever get easier?"

 

“No,” he admits, lips stretched into a thin smile. “It gets less."

 

They sit in poignant silence for a while, minds haunted by old ghosts, by decisions not made by them, but for them. His hand leaves her thigh, and she misses it, but doesn’t comment. 

 

“I appreciate it, anyway,” he says after a while, voice careful but missing that hard edge that crept in when he talked about his mother. “I know you’re charging Octavia way less than anyone else would, and I feel better knowing she has you here."

 

His curls hang heavy over this eyes, and she fights the urge to push them to the side, suddenly aware that they have inched closer on the couch. Their knees are touching, even though there is no need for it, and now she is acutely aware of the heat radiating off him, a small tingle of electricity vibrating on her skin where they touch. She glances down to his hands, sees them shaking slightly like he doesn’t know where he should put them. 

 

“I should go to bed,” she decides, preempting any regret that might come from lingering on the couch any longer. “Work in the morning."

 

“Goodnight,” he says, but when she crosses the living room and goes into her bedroom he follows.

 

The mattress dips as he sits next to her on the bed and she is breathless before he even touches her. Outside her window the wind rages on, but inside there is utter stillness, steady hands on hers, purposeful lips meeting and she is settled, all worry melting away. 

 

His lips are soft against hers, his tongue sliding gently into her mouth and making her neck tingle with goosebumps. His hands are impossibly warm, his skin rough against hers as he traces his palms over her body, making her squirm and shudder under him. That itch under her skin is back, pushing her for more, for more contact, for more of him. Clothes disappear and she lets her own hands roam over smooth skin, long, hard muscle and soft curls, opening wider for him, letting him come deeper. He accepts, pinning her to the mattress and breathing her new nickname into her skin. He touches her everywhere, like his hands are as starved as she feels, and they stay like that for a long time, touching and tasting, inhaling each other. Before he can scratch that itch for her, she is asleep, heavy in his arms, breathing steadily, still hard but less hollow. 

 

 

* * *

 

_I meet you at the darkest time_

_You hold me, and I have to shut my eyes_

Sunday, October

 

 

 

She works all weekend and she doesn’t see him again, doesn’t think about him, at least not intentionally. The itch thrums away under her skin with the beat of her pulse, but it's easy to ignore when there is an acopalypse ready to unfold around her. 

 

Outside the wind is worse, it’s hard to walk with her eyes open, and she is soaking wet by the time she makes it home. Bunker down, the news reports say, this is only going to get worse. It has never been worse than it is about to get, in the history of this city, it has never been like this. 

 

There is a long message from Octavia on her voicemail, all breathless and excited, which is the only way her voice sounds these days; high on endorphins and riding that rush of emotion you get when you find a new love. Stay inside, she commands, as if only Clarke would be insane enough to brave the elements. She’s got her provisions, like chickpeas, frozen pizzas and toilet paper, she explains before apologising for ditching her to ride the storm out at Lincoln’s place. 

 

Bellamy is weathering the storm with a friend, she promises, so no awkward babysitting of her brother. Her laugh is genuine and ignorant, which helps, but disappointment sours in her stomach and makes her drag her feet up the stairs. Isolation is not good for her. Too much time alone with her head and her heart brings out that cold, hard lump inside her which makes her wonder if this is how her father felt towards the end. 

 

As it is, she doesn’t have much choice. It’s more than relief that runs through her when he is there after all, on the couch, like false advertising. 

 

“Miller’s boyfriend turned up last minute,” he explains, question on his lips but not in his words. “I didn’t want to third wheel it all the way through this storm."

 

He helps her shutter the windows, she makes dinner and it’s easy again. He is easy. He is one level, he is the calm centre of the storm, he is warm and he thaws her frozen core a little with each smile and each _Princess_ that tumbles from his lips. 

 

The electricity goes off sometime during the evening and they light candles, the jasmine scented ones Lexa would always buy her. It throws a shade over her. 

 

He notices the shift in her mood when she fails to laugh at his joke about Octavia’s frozen pizzas being the worst possible emergency provision.

 

“You ok?"

 

“Yeah, just… Lexa bought me those."

 

“Lexa?"

 

“I didn’t know I loved her until she was leaving me,” she confesses, because it’s so easy to trust him and to lay some of her burden on him. 

 

“And then it was already too late."

 

It should be impossible, to rely on instinct as much as she does with him, but there is something about how he carries regret around with him like it’s his clothes; it's pain recognising pain. He nods slowly, swallowing his own memories.

 

“Gina, she was too good for me. I didn’t deserve her.” 

 

His eyes are dark and pained. Remorse hangs around his head like a yoke, dragging his eyes and his head down towards the floor, jaw clenching.

 

“Being with me, it killed her."

 

So here they are, the boy who destroys everything he touches and the girl who is never enough. A monster and a martyr, breaking and broken, crashing up against each other like driftwood in a storm surge. 

 

“How do we always end up here?"

 

Exposing themselves to each other. Cutting themselves raw on the past. Letting the other in, giving away parts that are not given away easily. Handing each other the ammunition and a map of where to inflict the deepest wounds.

 

She doesn’t say it because he already knows. 

 

_Maybe you’re exactly what I needed._

He shifts off the couch, needing to create some distance, she thinks. She catches his hand before he can pass her, anchoring him to her. Something moves over his features, dark and turbulent, mouth slack and waiting. He stares down at her with an intensity she’s never seen before.

 

His kiss is hard and deep, not soft and seductive as before, but almost savage. His knee rests between her legs, grinding against the seam of her jeans, combining his heat and hers. She instinctively arches into him, responding eagerly, almost desperately. 

 

His mouth is thirsty, inhaling her breath, teeth clattering against hers. His hands are strong, digging into her thighs and pushing her knees apart. He rocks his knee against her and she breathes _more_ into his mouth. 

 

“ _Fuck_ , Princess."

 

His breathing his heavy and short when he pulls back just enough to unbutton her jeans, but it stops entirely for a moment when she pulls her sweater over her head. 

 

“So fucking beautiful,” he mumbles, shaking his head a little, struggling to keep himself in check. It makes her hook her legs around his ass and grasp at his hair to bring him back. 

 

“ _Please_ , Bellamy,” she breathes, mouth open and begging for more. More ruthless kisses, more skin, more friction. _More._

 

They tug and pull, black lace falls to the floor, a belt buckle clinks. The heavy sigh of the wind drowns out her little moans. His skin is warm and smooth against her; hard, then soft, then hard again. His mouth is wet and silky against her neck, his words are a sharp point against the softness, sending heat and chills down to her toes. 

 

“I want to taste you, Princess."

 

Her eyes meet his as he slides down her body, dark, but steady; hungry, but controlled. Her hands drift to his hair, tugging on curls and nails scraping against skin as he lingers on her stomach. She is unfocused and relaxed, warmth spreading from every point where his lips meet her skin. Her back arches off the couch as he sucks purple kisses on the inside of her thighs, his stubble raking against ragged nerve endings. Her breath catches in her throat as he centres his attention and her thighs tighten. His mouth is _perfect_.

 

  
_Oh_ , but his hands...

 

“You like that, babe?” he rumbles against her, the sensation sending her soaring. 

 

She mumbles a reply, unintelligible beneath her staggered breath, her mind detached from her body and her eyes fluttering to the ceiling.

 

“I want to hear you say it."

 

“ _Fuck_ , that feels so good."

 

She grows desperate against his fingers, her nails biting his skin, grasping at upholstery. He pushes steadily deeper as her gasps grow louder, firm hand on her hip stopping her body arching away from her pleasure. He holds still for a moment, letting her feel everything and causing her to let out the smallest whimper before he continues, deliberately, deeply, repetitively. Teeth scrape lightly over flesh and she fractures, violence rippling through her and tearing her to pieces. 

 

Eyes at half mast she catches him staring at her, looking as wrecked as she feels. _Oh, Princess._

The itch beneath her skin has settled into a cool tingle. 

 

The shutters rattle against the windows like teeth in a frozen body and he drags her to her bedroom, his deep smoulder a stark contrast to the easy companionship they have fallen into. 

 

He pulls her onto his lap, hovers her above him, hard edges meeting her at every connection. His arms lock around her back, holding her steady. His focus is entirely on her, he is blind, deaf and dumb to the world beyond her. She is ready to break in half again just from the way he looks at her. 

 

Her taste lingers on his tongue, fresh, tart and unmistaken. Foreheads touch and eyes close and they breathe each other in. She is burning up from the inside, the raging current sweeping through her mirroring the approaching storm outside.

 

“I need you inside me,” she croaks, her voice unrecognisable to her own ears. 

“Patience, Princess,” he chuckles, laughter vibrating in his chest and puckering sensitive skin where her breasts sway against him. 

 

His eyes widen at the sight, calloused palms reaching and weighing, fingers sweeping and tweaking. His tongue follows, swirling, slurping, making her gasp for air. Her scalp rings with pain as he twists a hand in her hair and pulls hard, running sharp teeth over her throat.

_“Fuck."_

 

He releases her and she misses the pressure, leaning her back against cool sheets and sliding his tongue down her body, the chilled tracks racing over her and battling against her searing skin. A sharp hiss escapes her throat as his fingers slide through curls, testing her.

 

“Babe, you’re _drenched_.” His voice is broken, his breath staggered and his eyes hooded. His head disappears between her legs again, his talented tongue swirling against her and her back arches off the mattress in response.

 

“Stop fucking about and just get in me,” she laughs, grasping at his curls, her body tightening and betraying her words. 

 

“You want me inside you, Princess?” he pants, letting her feel his smirk against her, but staying in place, fingers driving her to distraction.

 

“Yes, I want you.”

 

He hovers her over the abyss, dangling her on a twine, balancing her on a fine edge. The itch starts to rise again, throbbing steadily, edging her towards need rather than want.

 

“You want me to fuck you, baby?"

 

He talks like she is a book he is reading out loud, analysing her and learning her inflections by the way she reacts. He talks to her like he wants to crack her spine, thumb her pages, tear her open and make her letters disappear with wear. 

 

“I _need_ you, Bell,” she whimpers, pulling at his hair again, more desperately, more insistently.

 

“Maybe if you ask nicely."

 

“ _Ple-ease_."

 

Finally he comes back to her, pulling at her lip with his teeth, the taste of iodine mixing with that unmistakable tartness lingering on his lips. He holds her gaze as he fixes her hands over her head, holding them down. She gasps loudly as he pushes into her, filling her, stretching her.

 

Outside the rain pounds against the shutters, the wind howls, and there is a crashing noise of metal against metal. Inside sweat-slick bodies beat to the rhythm of her howls, bone cracking against bone, the heat in the room increasing as the temperature outside drops.

 

He gets on his knees, grabbing her lower back and lifting her ass so she can see them meeting, so she can see him disappearing into her. He drops words into her head like fat drops of rain, telling her everything he feels, everything she does to him, how good, how tight, how close. His words falter and turn into expletives as they chase each other ever closer. He has her begging for _more, harder, faster,_ until she can’t take any of it, until her body buckles and shudders to get away, until the storm raging in her head stills and everything fades to black. 

 

Hours later, the wind wakes them, tangled together in a mess of sticky limbs. The storm is battering the city around them, hurling everything it has at them, but inside she is warm, soft and full. 

 

* * *

 

 

_We run around like we don’t care_

_It’s gonna leave its mark somewhere_

_Do you want to show me something new?_

 

 

Monday, October.

 

The greying light filters through solid shutters, giving the room a hazy gloom as if they’re wrapped up in a cloud. The wind blasts the walls, trying to grab, force and move, screaming in frustration as the building stays still. The world on the other side is violence, energy and noise. The world inside is soft puffs of breath, quiet rustling of sheets and stillness. 

 

Arms encircle her, a faded memory twinges in her heart like the dull pain from an old wound. But these arms are bigger, stronger, harder, holding the promise of something that hasn’t happened yet. Much clearer are the memories of last night, bright in her mind and freshly written on her body. She giggles quietly into skin that isn’t hers, rousing him and earning sloppy, soft kisses against her neck. 

 

“You’re a filthy fucking bastard,” she laughs softly, skin still on fire from his late night words. 

 

“You complaining, Princess?” His breath tickles her neck, his nose buried in her hair and arms clutching her tighter.

 

“Yes, who can I see about getting my money back..."

 

He rolls her under him, hands grasping her hipbone, swallowing the rest of her sentence. His kiss is slow, his eyes groan with exhaustion and her smile is lazy. Her hair is a tangled mess but he still runs his hands through it, him with his perfect curls and his perfect hands and his perfect mouth and she silently hopes the hurricane keeps on battering the city.

 

Aching stomachs eventually have them stumbling out of bed and cutting through the morning haze. They bicker like a married couple over who gets the bathroom first, read out loud conflicting and confusing news reports on the destruction outside and yelp excitedly when they discover the electricity is back. The coffee is at least five times stronger than she normally makes and she grins stupidly at him as he asks for two sugars, even though she knows he wants three. 

 

"I’ll fix you pancakes and bacon if you sit on the kitchen counter and do your best to stop me,” he challenges her, not knowing that it’s akin to declaring war to her. 

 

She lets him start, lets him believe he can keep that smug smirk on his face, lets him get his hands dirty. Her legs dangle innocently against the kitchen cupboards and she rattles off as many inconsequential questions as she can manage to keep him in the dark about her real strategy. 

 

“What’s your favourite memory from last night?” she finally starts, voice at a low purr. Her own stomach drops when she sees him sway a little, bacon grease spattering out of the pan and causing him to jerk his hand away violently. 

 

“Princess,” he warns, curls falling into his dark eyes as he turns to give her a look, mouth soothing his burn. 

 

“I can’t stop thinking about it,” she continues, shifting her legs apart a little, making sure he sees. 

 

“Your hands on my tits.”

 

She lets her own hand ghost over the front of her t-shirt, fingers outlining hardened skin underneath. The spatula trembles in his hand. She reaches for the hem of her shirt, lifting it as his gaze burns into her.

 

“Playing me like a pinball machine,” she smirks, unclasping black lace and arching her back. He swears under his breath as a slight burning smell hits her. 

 

“You’re not going to win this,” he promises, his words lessening their effect as his fist clenches a handful of curls on his head. 

 

“Good, because I’m _hungry_."

 

He shoots her a warning look, the challenge rising in him and it just became imperative to her to defeat him. He stubbornly turns to pour pancake batter into the frying pan, studiously avoiding her gaze. 

 

“I liked your mouth on me.”

 

He half turns towards her, flashing her a brief glance as she moves her hand slowly down her stomach, fingering the elastic of her panties. His jaw clenches and at least half the pancakes get ruined when he tries to flip them. 

 

“Your fingers inside me."

 

She slips her hand under the lace, watching him watch her. He squeezes his eyes shut briefly, struggling to control himself. Her skin flushes hot as she memorises his reaction, filing it away under _significant_. 

 

“Your tongue on my clit."

 

“Who’s the filthy fucking bastard now, Princess?” he grits out between his teeth, knuckles whitening as he grips the counter next to her. 

 

“But I really liked…” she huffs, her hand now moving on its own, trembling slightly.

 

“Tell me.”

 

His voice is pleading and ruined, and it makes her glow in triumph. She stops talking, sees the frustration, the tension and the hunger in his eyes and she knows she’s won. She rides the heat, fixing her heavy eyes on his and relishing in his undivided attention. The cooker gets turned off and breakfast shoved forcefully aside, pans and plates clattering against cold stone. 

 

_“Tell me."_

 

He’s over her in a flash, forehead pressed to hers as if he can draw the image straight out of her head. Fingers dig into her thighs as she chases her own end, pressing his frustration into her as if he’s in pain. She rises up on a wave, suspended in the air, tension stretching her in every direction.

 

“Your cock inside me,” she moans as she comes crashing down, air rushing out of her lungs, blood thumping in her veins. 

 

Hands fly to her face, mouth scorching her, drawing out her aftershocks.

 

“That is the hottest fucking thing I’ve ever seen in my entire life."

 

* * *

 

Later they eat cold pancakes and burnt bacon with their fingers, coffee stains interrupting their easy conversation. He wipes grease from the corner of her mouth with his thumb and licks it, making her body groan like the walls resisting the wind outside. The storm is a constant backdrop, isolating them from reality, enveloping them in an alternate universe where no one exists besides her and him. There is nothing to do but sit on the couch and pretend they wouldn’t want this day to be exactly like this anyway. 

 

She tells him the story of when her father built her a tent in the living room when she was six, dragging cushions and blankets in there, staying with her all day until her mother returned from work, because this reminds her of that. It's one of the happiest memories she has of him. He tells her the story about when Octavia was four and he was ten and she swallowed a wasp, so he and their mother ran around her frantically trying to get her to open her mouth until she laughed and the wasp flew back out. 

 

"She's terrified me every day since the day she was born," he says, but his smile looks more like awe. 

 

He tells her about the books, plural, that he’s reading, and she understands that he consumes words like he consumes air. He wears glasses because he always stays up late reading, until his eyes dry up and close on their own. The books are a distraction from the things he wishes he could have done differently, the paths he would have chosen for himself but couldn’t.

 

“You like working in security?"

 

She could probably predict his response, but asks anyway because it feels more important to pose the question than to have it answered.

 

“All I know is one day, I’m gonna wake up and I’ll be 50. And I’ll still be doing this shit."

 

He is weary, like Atlas condemned to hold up the sky for eternity, enduring and shouldering burden. 

 

“You ever think about going to college?"

 

He sighs like he’s been asked that question a million times, and at least half of them by himself. 

 

“I have a job, Octavia goes to college, that’s enough."

 

“Is it? For you, I mean. Is it enough?"

 

“I don’t know yet."

 

There is desolation in his eyes, but also something like gratitude that someone took the time to ask, to poke the surface and take a peek underneath. It almost startles her how familiar he is to her, that she instinctually knows how he is going to respond or that she can hear loudly the things he doesn’t say. When he says her name it’s like there is already history between them, like she isn’t getting to know him but remembering who he is. It would be easy to say it’s because he is like Octavia, but he is not. Where she is wild, he is measured; where she is free, he is obliged. The only thing their blood makes them both is viciously loyal and fiercely determined. Instead, she thinks it’s because he is so equal to her, the other side to her coin, the perfect balance on her scale. In every one of his _I can’t-s,_ she hears her own _._ In each of his _I have to-s_ there is one of hers.

 

She remembers she has a bottle of Maker’s Mark and it brings a slow smile to his face and a twinkle to his eyes. They eat one of Octavia’s disgusting frozen pizzas on the couch and the bourbon has them making big plans. They’re going to drive the Pacific coast highway together, snowboard in the Rockies, get a summer rental in Montauk. Everything is grand and with an exclamation point, and with an unwavering belief in the future. She’ll come to Boston and visit him for St Patrick’s Day she says, glass clinking against her teeth, buzzing on alcohol and his words. He looks away, his face unreadable and she’s embarrassed. The kind of embarrassed she could only feel with a new someone, because she doesn’t know how to read his reaction, because maybe she doesn’t know him at all. He presses small kisses to her forehead when her cheeks flush and he smiles into her hair, and she thinks maybe she doesn’t have to know everything all at once. They are precarious and fragile, like the wind might knock them over at any moment.

 

Cabin fever doesn’t stand a chance against them. Between conversations he pulls her onto his lap or she drags him down to her and they make out like teenagers, uninterrupted kisses, palming hands and an urgent need for friction. When they breathlessly part it's easy to retreat back to their corners in silence. He doesn't try and neither does she, they just exist and find companionship in the way it doesn't matter if the words run dry. He reads his book and she sketches him, glasses on and in deep concentration, the tendons and muscles in his hand as he runs it through his hair absentmindedly, his tongue running over his lips as he’s lost in thought. He raises an eyebrow and flashes her a wicked smirk when she shows him, but he doesn't comment and returns to his book with rounder, softer eyes.  

 

It doesn’t take long for the itch to flare up under her skin, for her to accidentally on purpose brush against him with a wry smile on her lips. It doesn’t take him long to catch on. His eyes burn holes into her from the other side of the couch, igniting her skin and making her brave. She unhinges a leg, creeps the pad of her foot over the front of his sweat pants, pushing gently. His blink lasts too long. _Brave Princess._

 

“Where do you want me?"

 

His Adam’s apple bobs over his throat, his fingers twitch against his thighs and his eyes glitter darkly. The wind rushes into the darkness outside, and she is swept away, delirious and headless, unglued and hopeless.

 

“On your knees. Eyes on me."

 

She doesn’t hesitate. Her knees bruise against the wooden floor, pink, swollen and sore. Her fingers reach him, disrobe him and change the way he breathes as soon as they touch skin. 

 

_“Princess."_

 

He is smooth and tough, but defenceless as she traces, swirls and inhales. His fingers tangle in her hair, yanking back to give him a better view. 

 

“Jesus, babe, you look so fucking beautiful."

 

His voice is like honey, running over her in trickles and touching her in unseen places. She lets him feel her tongue, her teeth, her throat, her throb. 

 

“Fuck, your mouth feels so good on me,” he groans, fingers tightening against her scalp, the muscles in his legs and abs contracting, voice hardening.

 

She is lionhearted, she is the surge of the storm, she is the thing that robs him of his breath. She robs him blind, leaves him devastated and dry, gasping for air. He is bitter, harsh and biting, dripping out of her and down her chin. She wipes it off with a finger, licking it clean. She wants to taste what control feels like. His laugh is tight and his eyes are full, and his hands are blazing when he pulls her onto the couch, running healing palms over her knees. 

 

“Where do you want me?” he whispers, repeating her words back at her.

 

His fingers pushes past lace, finding raw lust. She chokes on her own breath when one disappears past his lips, then another one, then another one. 

 

“Put your hands on my knees,” she manages, his heavy eyes pinning her back against the cushions. 

 

“And don’t you fucking dare be gentle with me."

 

* * *

 

Later the electricity goes again and they light candles, but the jasmine scent doesn’t bother her as much. She stretches her aching legs and he cricks his neck, laughing to himself.

 

“Remind me to burn this fucking couch before Octavia comes back."

 

She smiles until her cheeks start to hurt. 

 

She uses the last of her laptop battery to play him the song she listens to on repeat at 2 am, singing along tunelessly and unapologetically, the screen lighting her face blue. He takes a photo of the debris on the coffee table, jasmine scented candles, half-empty bottle of bourbon, discarded pizza crusts and coffee stained mugs, and posts it on instagram. The caption says _Princess tea party_. She drags Octavia’s acoustic guitar from her room when her laptop dies and plays terribly the one song she knows, against nothing but white walls and his stare. 

 

Octavia calls to check in, but can’t talk long because she has no battery. 

 

“Is my brother being good? Because if he isn’t I’ll come out in this storm and kick his ass for you."

 

She chokes on her own laughter and assures her it is not necessary. She tells her the pizzas are a life saver and that she needs to teach her another song on the guitar. 

 

Raven texts her to ask if she is as bored out of her mind as she is, but she forgets to answer because in the other room Bellamy is on the phone with Miller and she swears she hears him say he _met someone_. It feels like hope. Like the start of something significant. 

 

“Do you think I could do it?"

 

He is a little more drunk, a little more exposed, a little more lost. He means college she supposes, taking a path that is scary because it is egotistical and because it is the exact opposite of what he has done all his life. 

 

“Of course you can. Octavia is fine, she can take care of herself. She _is_ taking care of herself."

 

He nods slowly, believing her words but not the implication they hold for him. 

 

“She still needs you, of course. She’ll always need you. But maybe it’s time for her to bear her own burden."

 

He doesn’t say anything, just clutches his glass harder and stares at the floor in front of him. 

 

“The question is do you want to do it?"

 

“Of course I want to do it."

 

“Do you? Are you willing to take a chance on doing something that is just for you and not anyone else?"

 

“I could ask you the same thing."

 

He is unexpected in every way, in the way he finds his way to her core unflinchingly and without delay. He is unexpected in the way he affects her; body, heart and mind. The fire in her gut is too hot to let cold seep back in. 

 

“Med school is hardly a sacrifice. I’m privileged."

 

“Then why do you seem so deprived?"

 

The way he sees her so clearly is humbling and unsettling at the same time. She wants to cover her face in her hands to protect herself from his study, but she knows it would make no difference. He is the boy that wanders into your heart without knocking, without wiping his feet on the doormat. He is insistent, unrelenting and there is no hiding from him. 

 

“Maybe I’m longing for the girl I used to be, rather than the one that I am."

 

She is not herself, hasn’t been herself since her father, and then Wells, then Finn and then Lexa. She is a diluted version of herself, skin and bones instead of heart and hope. She slips through the cracks, like water following whatever path it can find, flowing to her mother’s wants and hopes rather than her own. It’s not hard to understand how she came to this, how life chewed up her defiance and spat her out unrecognisable. But she still remembers how she used to be - wild and reckless. Bold and unapologetic. 

 

“And who do you think you are now?"

 

“My mother thinks I’m _delicate_."

 

“You are not delicate. You feel weak but you act strong. You are relentless in your belief in people. You are a silent fighter."

 

There is a ferocity in his voice that makes her want to see herself like he sees her. His gaze is convincing, his tone is insistent, like he depends on her believing him. Like if she can believe what he says about her, then maybe he can believe what she says about him. Like he _needs_ her, entirely.

 

“You’re like an unwritten book. You’re like unexplored adventures and experiences waiting to happen. You’re like a thousand possible endings to imagine as the pages turn. You’re a little wild, a little fearless and a little dirty, but you are _not_ delicate. You are breathtaking."

 

The alcohol is strong and consuming, but the fire burning in her belly is all him. 

 

“You don’t see me like anyone else does."

 

“Neither do you."

 

She takes him to bed as the wind abates, settles into a persistent gush. He takes it slow, whispering words like _strong, tough, stunning, amazing_ into her ear.  Her nails mark his back and his mouth marks her throat. They bend and break underneath the wails of the whipping trees outside, ripping each other apart like the sky above them. They go to sleep warm, drunk and connected. 

 

* * *

_Just tell me what I have to do_

_To keep myself apart from you_

_All your colours start to burn_

 

Tuesday, October.

 

Outside the wind is a hushed apology, the rain softly attempts to wash away the destruction. She studies his sleeping face, the unguarded softness, the oblivious peacefulness. She memorises the small lines bracketing his mouth, the silver diacritic over his lip, the faint slashes of gold in his dark curls. She counts his freckles in the light of dawn, counting in time with the raindrops falling on the window. The freckles are as many as there are raindrops, falling, falling, falling and taking her with them.  

 

Her chest aches when he wakes, because she already knows the subsiding wind and the slowing rain is the end of something. He presses his lips to hers before he even opens his eyes, his body more awake than his brain. 

 

She lets him drag her out of bed and into the shower, the whoosh of warm water letting her stay in the hurricane a little longer. He bites her shoulder as her hands brace against cold tiles. His hands bruise her hips when he pulls her back towards him and her knees buckle slightly as he slides into her. 

 

“ _Princess,_ ” he whispers into her neck, pressing open mouthed kisses against her wet skin.

 

She aches and arches, begs for _deeper, harder_ , and lets fat drops of water fall into her open mouth. He thumps against her walls, his hands slip on the slick slopes of her breasts and glide down.

 

“ _Bell, Bell, Bell_ ,” she sings tunelessly, resting her burning forehead on the icy ceramic. 

 

He turns her around, lifts her up in the air, wedging her leg between their bodies, pressing her shinagainst his chest. 

 

“Jesus, you drive me crazy, babe,” he growls into her mouth, speeding up and digging in. 

 

His head drops to her shoulder and he sinks into her, running hot palms over her like it’s agony not to touch her. She steels herself against madness, deliriously in love with the feeling of not just being wanted, but _craved_.

 

“Don’t stop."

 

“I swear I won’t fucking stop until the neighbours know the sound of your _scream_ , Princess."

 

They outrun the hot water, but she barely registers the icy drops beating down on her overheated skin. Her throat is sore. 

 

She watches him as he pads barefoot through the kitchen, humming quietly to himself as he makes coffee, rustling through the pages of a days old newspaper. She watches him pack his bag on Octavia’s bed, his books disappearing from the coffee table and into his duffel. She watches him put boots and his coat on, and she realises she has no idea what he even looks like in outside clothes. She has no idea what he looks like grabbing a coffee to go from the place on the corner, or what he looks like in a bar, drinking beer, surrounded by his friends. She has no idea what his friends look like. 

 

He kisses her goodbye, pulling her close and holding her tightly against his beating chest.

 

He releases her just in time as keys turn in the lock and Octavia bounds into the flat, exhilarated but exhausted. She takes the siblings in, their hearty hugs, their playful teasing, the admonishing and protective needling he can’t help but let slip out. The unmistakable, fierce love they have for each other hangs in the air as thick as their goodbye did moments ago. Her stomach turns to knots as she knows without question that she wants him to look at her with just half the savage determination, just half the pure emotion he has for his sister. She wants to be loved without condition, by him.

 

“Never mind the couch, I think I’m going to have to burn down this whole apartment down. Just move, ok?” he whispers into her ear and presses a soft kiss against her cheek while Octavia’s back is turned. 

 

And at that he is gone. 

 

If Octavia notices her distinct lack of trousers, she doesn’t comment. 

 

She eventually ventures outside to find her building and her entire neighbourhood entirely unscathed, like none of it ever even happened.

 

 

* * *

_Never thought I wouldn’t be enough_

_All this talk is bruising you_

 

Monday, November.

 

Almost a week later the world is back to normal, the streets cleared of broken branches and shattered glass. The subway and the buses run as normal, schools open and life is more or less as it was. Except for her it is much, much less. 

 

His messages started with the same fire that raged between them, but dwindle with each passing day, cooling in tone and tempo. 

 

“Maybe it was just supposed to be a one-day thing, like a mayfly, you know?” Raven says, helpfully but devastatingly. 

 

She found out straight away, because she shares every experience with Raven since the time they literally shared more than two women should ever have to in the shape of Finn. 

 

“Maybe that kind of living is too intense to stand the light of more than one day."

 

“Almost two."

 

“Technically it takes twice the total amount of time you were together with someone to get over that person. So by my calculations, you should have been over it on Saturday."

 

“I don’t think it works like that."

 

No promises were exchanged, nothing tangible beyond exchanged numbers, knowing smiles and possessive touches. Still, she aches with something like homesickness, longing for a place she’s never been, just because he showed her a glimpse of it and then took it away. 

 

* * *

 

 

Octavia finds out that afternoon when they sit on her bed with their books between them and her foot finds Bellamy’s forgotten t-shirt under her bed. Her eyes widen, then narrow, then gleam.

 

“Oh, I see babysitting my brother was no hardship for you at all!” she smirks, chucking the shirt in her face. It still smells like him. 

 

“It could’ve been worse,” she shrugs, fingering the threadbare material in her hands. 

 

Octavia’s face is stretched wide, relishing in the possibility that Clarke might have had something close to what she is experiencing herself until it dawns on her that there are mental images of her brother she’d rather not have in her brain. She jumps off the bed like it’s on fire. 

 

“Oh my god, Clarke! I can never sit on your bed again!"

 

She chuckles despite herself as Octavia starts out of her room and yells back at her from inside the living room.

 

“What about here? Is it safe in here?"

 

She doesn’t respond, clenching her eyes shut and resting her forehead against her knees. 

 

“What about the kitchen?” Octavia hollers from further away, reminding her of the furious scrubbing down of surfaces she made sure happened as soon as the door shut behind Bellamy. 

 

“Ok, but the bathroom is safe, right?” 

 

Her voice is a little disbelieving and a little pleading, and more than a little outraged, echoing against the hard tiles.

 

“Please tell me my bedroom is untarnished,” she yelps, back at the bedroom door, eyebrows raised in desperation.

 

“Your bedroom is fine,” she promises, avoiding anything more than the briefest eye contact.

 

“I’m gonna fucking kill him,” she mutters, dejected but defiant as ever. 

 

“ _Don’t._ ”

 

Her own voice is a little desperate, a little broken and it makes Octavia look at her with dark eyes that belong to her brother. 

 

“Don’t say anything to him, ok?" 

 

Later that night, Octavia crawls into bed with her, small, strong arms winding around her waist, head pressed hard against her ribs. 

 

“Tell me,” she demands, and draws the words out, words of dashed hope and broken beginnings. She chokes on words of his indifference and sheds words of her implied insignificance like they’re the tears she can’t bring herself to let go. 

 

“I’m gonna fucking kill him,” she promises again, and squeezes her tightly. 

 

She goes to sleep with his shirt tucked under her pillow and smoke from an extinguished flame in her gut. She shuts her eyes like nothing can hurt her with her eyes closed.

 

* * *

_I don’t really need this pressure to go_

_If you wanna find love, if you wanna find something more_

_I’ll be the one to run for you_

Friday, March.

 

Raven, who thinks of everything in measurables, who can’t help but quantify even the most intangible emotions, tells her it takes four months for a crush to turn into love. She tells her in an attempt to stop her moping, to get her ass off the couch to come out for drinks and maybe a flirt. She tells her to say that two days, which she begrudgingly agrees to let her have, is not enough time for something other than a crush to develop. 

 

Four months. 18 weeks. 125 days. 3000 hours. And she still thinks about him. For all the goodbyes she’s said in her life, she’s never been good at letting go.

 

Four months, and she tries to see herself like he sees her, as someone who can act strong even if she feels weak. Someone who isn’t born strong, but is made strong by being let down by the world and picking herself back up. Someone who doesn’t have a pretty heart, but a battered, bruised one, stained by darkness but beating even harder for it. A silent fighter.

 

Four months, and she starts to believe it. She asks about changing courses, thinks maybe political science might be closer to her heart and she doesn’t bother telling her mother. She visits her father’s grave for the first time since the funeral, spends a cold day alone on a bench puffing smoke from her mouth and decides that he is going to be a happy memory rather than a painful one. She makes Octavia teach her three more songs on the guitar and she can actually do them pretty well. She resolves to never say no to Raven when she asks her to come out for drinks and maybe a flirt. 

 

She feels a little more like her old self surrounded by her friends, loud voices and laughter and an ember in her gut ignited by alcohol. Octavia and Lincoln come, but spend the entire night wrapped up in each other and seem oblivious to the existence of other people. Raven is not so subtly hitting on the tall, long-haired bouncer, Harper and Monroe are bickering with Jasper over who’s round it is and a tall, pretty blonde called Niylah slides up next to her and asks if she can buy her a drink. 

 

Niylah is fun, uncomplicated and explicit about her interest in her. It’s nice to feel wanted so she lets Niylah buy her another bourbon and put her hand on her leg. She laughs at her lame jokes, seems genuinely interested in hearing Clarke murder the guitar sometime, but when she leans closer it is all wrong. Her hair is the wrong colour, she smells like apples and cherry blossom instead of wood and coffee, and the hand on her thigh is too light. She makes her excuses and rushes out into the cold night air. 

 

And suddenly, he’s just _there_ , right outside the bar, like some sort of optical illusion or cruel mind trick. 

 

“Pr.. _Clarke_."

 

For all the times she has conjured up images of his face, his voice, his presence in her mind, he seems different in person. Like she doesn’t remember him clearly enough to do him justice. The wind ruffles his curls, quiet and slow. 

 

“What are you doing here?"

 

“Octavia said…” 

 

“Ok, but _why_ are you here?"

 

His eyes are drawn and his eyebrows creased, something heavy hanging over his features. It’s a look he has perfected.  _Remorse_ , she thinks, his old friend.  

 

“I fucked up."

 

He rests his hands on his hips and tips his chin forward, half-defeated, half determined. His eyes glitter under the streetlights, anger directed inwards, a self-flagellation of sorts. Like he can’t believe he did it _again_. There is a slow drizzle in the air, falling like mist on her face.

 

“You didn’t call or text."

 

“I know."

 

There is a puddle under her feet in the place she froze, but moving out of it would mean moving closer. She keeps him at a ten feet distance physically, but emotionally the divide is much greater.

 

“I got scared. I just couldn’t quite believe that I could be this person you saw me as. This person who could do whatever the hell I wanted, who could be someone worth having."

 

He is the boy who destroys everything he touches, who moves into your heart without knocking, whose broken bones are never allowed to set.

 

"Part of me knew exactly what a valuable thing I was passing up, but I did it anyway because I didn’t know how to be any different."

 

“And now?"

 

“Now I know what I lost. And it made me make damn sure I didn’t lose anything else. I’m here because I’m looking for a flat, Clarke. I quit my job. I start college in the fall."

 

She stays in place, the chill in the wind has no bearing on the spark of flame that has come to life in her stomach. 

 

“You’ll always be someone worth having."

 

“I don’t deserve you."

 

“You don’t."

 

She is the girl who is never enough, the one who always says goodbye but never lets go, and she is relentless, fearless and breathtaking.

 

“But you have me anyway."

 

He kisses her and she tastes blood on her tongue. He kisses her and he destroys her all over again. He kisses her and she finally knows why they name hurricanes after people. 

 

* * *

_Take shelter, oh_

_Take the pressure, oh_

_Do what you want tonight_

_It's alright if you want to get used_

_Then get used_

 


End file.
